


Right In Front of Their Eyes

by Everyday_Im_Preaching



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Competent Fighter!Everett Ross, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Missing Scene, Public Display of Affection, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 16:56:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14169381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everyday_Im_Preaching/pseuds/Everyday_Im_Preaching
Summary: Everett and T'Challa have been in love for months now: they share kisses and gentle moments in-between the hurry and panic of the world, loving each other in a way that only they know how--yet despite their obvious affection for one another, no one seems to notice.That is, until the marriage invites are delivered.





	Right In Front of Their Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinginthenarrowsea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinginthenarrowsea/gifts).



> Hi there guys! This is a piece commissioned by the lovely kinginthenarrowsea (rad name by the way)! Thanks once again, lovely, it was a delight!
> 
> If you enjoy this fic, I would be flattered if you'd leave a comment below--no, really, I would appreciate it beyond quantifiable measure! (See, I'm even bringing out the big words.) While this is a commissioned fic, the support means the world to me, and lends strongly to my motivation to write more for this pairing. Thank you!

 

“T’Challa.” Everett called his boyfriend’s name quietly, trying not to draw too much attention from the people around him. T’Challa turned toward him, lips curling into a beaming, enthusiastic smile. He broke away from his father, eagerly padding over and entwining his fingers with Everett’s. “You’re looking awfully handsome today.”

“As are you,” T’Challa replied. “Why are you standing in the shadows, love?”

Everett shrugged, pressing up onto the pads of his feet to press a gentle kiss to T’Challa’s mouth. “I might have called in this morning to come see you.” He squeezed T’Challa’s fingers, twisting them within his own. “I have to go in this afternoon, though. I just wanted to swing by and wish you luck in there—I know diplomacy isn’t really your thing.”

A soft laugh left T’Challa, and he leaned closer to Everett, brushing his lips across Everett’s forehead. “There’s no need to worry.” He carefully pulled one of Everett’s hands close to his chest, pressing it to where his heart beat loudest. “Luck is paltry in comparison to the love I hold in my heart for you. With it, I can do anything.”

Everett’s heart squeezed in his chest at the admission. His fingers curled against the cloth of T’Challa’s suit, then flattened once more. “I love you—don’t let any of the suits up there bully you around. That’s my job.” He drew his hands away, letting them fall to his sides. “Give my regards to your father as well.”

“I love you too,” T’Challa replied, kissing at Everett’s mouth once again. “And I certainly will. He adores you so.” He drew back, looking utterly devastated as he did so. “Speaking of, I must be off. My father is giving a speech, and it would look terrible if I wasn’t there.”

T’Challa paused before he turned away. His lips rolled between his teeth; they briefly pinched between them, and then popped free. “I will be in town, for the evening—”

“—Yes, you can join me for dinner,” Everett told him with a playful roll of his eyes. “And for bed, if you’d like.” The soft rumble that left T’Challa was enough to convince Everett that was a yes. Everett strolled away seconds later, aware of T’Challa’s eyes following him.

As he walked, an uncharacteristically chilly wind plucked at the collar of his shirt and tousled his hair. He shivered, shoulders hiking up against it to protect his ears from the cold—the older he got, the more sensitive they became. Everett shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks, an unsettled shudder working through him and settling somewhere deep in his gut.

Everett was hard-pressed to dismiss the feeling—he was used to trusting his gut, keeping a steady confidence in his instinct. Something bad was going to happen; he could only pray that whatever it was would have nothing to do with the signing of the Accords.

And when the news of the bombing at the Vienna International Centre reached Everett, he was reminded of why he wasn’t a praying man. The tight ball in his stomach unfurled like a water lily in early morning, petals snapping open and drawing paper-thin cuts across Everett’s heart. He had stumbled where he stood, trying to gather his coat and briefcase without fainting.

_ T’Challa, I need to call him. I need to know if he’s okay,  _ Everett thought, feet carrying him out to the room, followed by the curious calls of co-workers and underlings alike. His hand was instinctively digging for his phone whilst his mind was trying to wrap around the idea of possibly losing T’Challa. It was foreign and painful, lighting up the front of his mind with striking clarity. T’Challa was  _ fine.  _ He had to be.

The drive was a blur; Everett was dialling and re-dialling T’Challa’s number, nearly slamming the phone to the side of his head with each one. He needed T’Challa to pick up—Everett needed to know he was  _ alive,  _ dammit. With every tinny ring of the phone, Everett’s shaking became more prominent until he felt like he was coming apart at the seams.

He nearly slammed on his brakes when his phone chirped at him, more mournful than the sound of a funeral bell. It wasn’t from T’Challa—it was a notification from the local news, professing that King T’Chaka was dead—the blast had killed him instantly. Everett’s chest squeezed until he forgot how to breathe, and he wrung the steering wheel between his fingers. His foot tapped the gas, trying desperately to smooth his emotions over. No matter how poorly he felt, he couldn’t imagine how hard it had to be for T’Challa.

_ I just saw him this morning,  _ Everett whined to himself, unable to stop the shaking. He had to be strong—he had to be there for T’Challa. He knew so little about comforting. Everett didn’t risk bringing his hand from the wheel to brush at his own tears, instead taking a deep breath and blinking them away. There’d be time for his own grief later.

 

T’Challa was sitting on a bench, staring blankly at the crumbling building across the street from him; blood painted his face, red and sticky, midway between wet and dry. Everett’s legs locked where he stood on the sidewalk, watching medical professionals dart here and there. His first emotion was relief, then anger, and then  _ despair. _

Everett watched as T’Challa tilted his head toward him, eyes far from empty—no, pain and rage battled endlessly within his eyes. T’Challa’s mouth went to move, but he was interrupted as Natasha sat on the bench to the left of him, filling the silence with words that Everett couldn’t quite hear.

He took a moment to stealthily shift closer, feet moving silently; he knew he couldn’t fool T’Challa, but Natasha was looking anywhere but at him.

“—I am not my father,” T’Challa rumbled, eyes returning to the building in front of him.

Natasha’s expression was pensive, thoughtful in a way that only suited her. Her hands remained still, clenched within one another a bit tighter than Everett considered comforting. “T'Challa,” she stressed, hands tightening further. “Task force will decide who brings in Barnes.”

T’Challa was up and off the bench before Natasha could say more, restless energy thrumming through every limb. “Don't bother, Miss Romanoff. I'll kill him myself.” He seethed, storming off the bench and toward Everett.

“T’Challa,” Everett rasped, unsure of how to use his voice. He offered his hands outward toward the younger man, heart breaking when soft fingers brushed the tips of his. “T’Challa—”

“Don’t try to stop me, love,” T’Challa told him sternly. “This is something I have to do.”

And then he was gone, flitting away to mingle into the crowd of nearby gawkers, sinking deeper into them until Everett could no longer pick him out.

“But I have to do my job,” Everett replied awkwardly. He let out a frustrated huff, curling his fingers into tight, unforgiving fists. “God dammit.”

The next time Everett saw T’Challa, he was  _ pissed.  _ T’Challa had been ignoring every attempt of contact—every phone call, text, and voicemail were left unanswered. Upon finding T’Challa attempting to  _ kill Barnes in public,  _ his rage grew, sparking and lighting a fire in his chest. It consumed the sadness and sympathy that had nestled there before.

That’s why he had to press his lips tightly together, when T’Challa was hauled into HQ—he refused to meet his eye, turning from him and marching down the hallway without so much as grin. He could feel T’Challa’s fingers brush his palm, calloused and rough.

“—I don’t intend on going anywhere,” he murmured. The sound was soothing in comparison to the rough shouting and ever-constant beeping that had been surrounding Everett not moments before. Those fingers brushed his palm again, and Everett jerked his head back to glare at T’Challa—but melted quickly at the apology he saw in his eyes.

Everett was way too soft on him.

He snapped his head back forward, trying his best to ignore Thaddeus’ blathering about how T’Challa was  _ lucky.  _ Something about diplomatic immunity saving him from a lifetime in jail. It was utterly  _ sickening _ to listen too.

“If I may interrupt,” Everett announced icily; he didn’t have much thought for the trouble he’d get in later. “Prince T’Challa has recently lost his father. Have some respect.”

Thaddeus’ voice died in his throat, and Everett tried to ignore his trembling hands; he thought highly of the man, but there was no reason to needle T’Challa. A low hum left T’Challa’s throat, imperceptible, or at least normal enough to be unnoticeable to the others, but it had Everett’s heart jumping in his chest.  _ Approval,  _ his mind whispered.

_ Approval my ass,  _ he challenged almost immediately after.  _ He’s as good as dead the moment I get him alone. _

Which wasn’t nearly soon enough. There was paperwork to do, apologies to be made—he had to work on getting T’Challa free without turning too many heads or making too many people suspicious. While he wasn’t embarrassed by his relationship with T’Challa, he couldn’t risk being taken off the case just because of it. He needed to help T’Challa as best he could.

His mood plummeted the moment he stepped into the office and bumped right into T’Challa. There was only one way in and out of the office that the group had been escorted to, which could only mean one thing.

“You’re trying to leave?” Everett asked, voice low and in the back of his throat. His fingers tightened around the document in his hands—a release form. All T’Challa had to do was sign it and wait an hour or two for it to process—and then he’d be free.

T’Challa stumbled backward, blinking in surprise, obviously not expecting Everett anymore than he’d expected him. Shame crept its way across his features before being washed away entirely. Forced calm took over, and his lips pursed.

“Everett, please,” T’Challa begged, voice soft and quiet. The Avengers had gathered in the elevated room nearby. There was a tension threaded in the air betwixt them that Everett could read, even this far away.

“I can’t believe you,” Everett muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You were going to just try and leave? What would have happened if someone else found you?”

“I still plan to leave,” T’Challa muttered quietly. “I cannot let anyone stop me, even you. I am sorry, love. If you step aside, I will not have to hurt you.”

A laugh, wholly unexpected, left Everett. “What?” he asked, voice high and bordering on incredulity. “You’re going to fight me, right now? And then what will you do, after you get me down? He’s in custody. You’re better off fighting this from a legal standpoint.”

“This is personal,” T’Challa urged. “I would not pursue it so strongly otherwise.”

Everett gritted his teeth, taking a moment to collect himself.

“And this is my  _ job.  _ If I let you go without a fight, then I might as well kiss it goodbye—” He slapped the papers against T’Challa’s chest, getting him to startle. “—Now you either go sit down and sign these, or you better be ready to hit me.”

The moment that T’Challa moved, so did Everett.

_ So that’s how this is going to be,  _ Everett thought, jumping back as T’Challa swept a leg forward, trying to knock him off his feet. He nimbly avoided another attempt, and then blocked what was obviously a pulled punch.  _ That’s my advantage,  _ he mused, ducking low and shoving his fist hard into T’Challa’s gut.  _ He’s afraid to hurt me. _

T’Challa stumbled backward, but only briefly. Knowing flashed in his eyes, and he swiped a hand forward, grabbing at Everett’s collar; it tore as fingers dug into it, cloth giving and seams ripping just enough to stir a sense of fear in Everett’s chest. Instead of panicking, he brought his knee up, jamming it against T’Challa’s upper torso and freeing himself.

“It is not wise to fight me,” T’Challa growled out, grabbing the next punch Everett threw, tugging him forward and twisting his arm around his back. Pain smarted its way through Everett’s shoulders and he had to grit his teeth at the urge to cry out when T’Challa put his weight behind it.

He leaned over Everett, pressing his mouth to the older man’s ear. “I don’t want to do this.”

“You don’t have to,” Everett snapped, jerking his head up and slamming it into T’Challa’s nose; T’Challa swore and pulled back, releasing Everett—Everett swung his fist forward, catching the other man in the chest. “I gave you a choice,” he continued to hiss.

“Not much of a choice,” T’Challa responded, weaving away from Everett, and delivering a blow to the older man’s side, sending him staggering toward a wall.

Everett twisted out of the way as a foot came down hard into the drywall. “Not all choices are fair, or easy,” He twisted once again, this time away from a punch that cracked the wall where his head had been moments before. “You’re really trying to hold yourself back on this one, aren’t you?”

“I could not live with myself if I hurt you,” T’Challa huffed out, leg darting out and tangling between Everett’s. Everett went down hard, crashing onto the floor; he rolled out of the way as a foot came down, wincing when it caught his side. “But I will go through you, if I must.”

“You’re sounding a lot like a broken record here,” Everett huffed, rolling back to his feet and dodging yet another blow. “Who are you trying to convince? You or me?”

Everett shot forward, arm outstretched—and found himself whirled around and slammed against the wall in a shadowed bit of hallway. His back protested, and his hands were hauled up above his head and pinned there. The pressure around his wrists was nearly painful. T’Challa’s face was inches from his own, teeth bared and breath brushing over his cheeks.

And then T’Challa was  _ kissing  _ him. It was hard, teeth clacking together and cutting lips, but it was  _ kissing.  _ A greedy hand splayed itself across Everett’s chest, fiddling with buttons as it went.

“I’m sorry,” T’Challa whispered in-between kisses. Everett did his best to keep up with them, mind melting into static. T’Challa shifted to pin one of Everett’s thighs between his legs, rocking down against it. Everett gasped; T’Challa’s cock was deliciously hard and insistent against his leg.

“T’Challa, this isn’t a good idea,” Everett whined. He let his head be bullied upward by insistent lips and teeth; T’Challa was biting and sucking viciously at his neck, working the pale skin into varying shades of purple. “We’re in a hallway, for Christ’s sake.”

A snort left T’Challa. “It hasn’t stopped us before,” he breathed.

“That was in my  _ house, _ ” Everett hissed, hips jerking when T’Challa ran a hand over his crotch—he blinked when he realised his arms were no longer pinned above his head—when had that happened? He pushed at T’Challa’s chest. “This is my workplace, T’Challa. Stop kissing me, there are  _ cameras. _ ” A noise of discontent left the back of his throat when he was ignored.

“Not that much of a difference,” T’Challa murmured, undoing Everett’s pants singlehandedly. “The nights are so lonely without you.” He was kissing Everett before he could respond, undoing the older man’s slacks and slipping his fingers inside. T’Challa plucked at the band of Everett’s boxers playfully and then dipped a single finger beneath it.

“The Avengers are right  _ there, _ ” Everett complained, albeit quietly. He widened his stance, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth when a second finger joined the first and dipped low enough to brush the base of his now half-hard cock. “You can’t be serious. What if someone sees us? Especially after that fight—they’re probably sending backup, and they’re going to find you humping me against a wall instead.”

T’Challa shrugged, though a smile lingered on his lips. “No one will interrupt us. You have my word.” He kissed at Everett’s throat, clicking his tongue. “Do you really think I’d leave the cameras on, if I intended to escape?”

The admission had alarm bells ringing in the forefront of Everett’s brain. “You already run around in a cat suit—isn’t that enough? Don’t tell me you’re into organised crime too?”

“Organised…?” T’Challa was puzzled for all of a second, before nodding. He smiled at Everett and kissed him once again—the kiss softer now, but still hungry. “No, no one is coming to bust me out. I was supposed to extract myself.”

_ If not organised crime, then it had to be Shuri handling the cameras,  _ Everett thought to himself. He wasn’t entirely familiar with T’Challa’s work as the Black Panther, nor all he dealt in. It was nice that he wasn’t leaning towards career criminal. 

Once again, Everett was muffled by T’Challa, held sway under talented lips and hands. “But you had to catch me, didn’t you? What timing you have.” Those curious fingers dove lower still, wrapping around Everett’s cock. Everett let out a whine he would have considered embarrassing, had anyone else been listening. Which they  _ could  _ be.

“T’Challa, this is a  _ bad  _ idea,” Everett reiterated, eyelids fluttering shut and teeth gritting to hold back a moan. T’Challa took a moment to pull Everett’s cock free from his pants, groaning at the sight of it as he looked down between them. Everett rolled his lips between his teeth and then bit  _ down  _ at the feeling of cold air brushing the wet head of his cock. “God, this is such a bad idea.”

“Do you want me to stop?” T’Challa inquired, pinching at one of Everett’s nipples through his shirt. Everett shook his head, much to T’Challa’s delight. “Then stop worrying. Consider everything taken care of.”

“If this ends up in some weird intern’s porn collection, I swear to every god you worship—”

His tangent was cut off when T’Challa squeezed his cock. A rush of air left Everett’s lungs and he wiggled against the wall. T’Challa quickly took up kissing him again, capturing every moan—but when Everett went to grab at T’Challa’s crotch to stroke him in return, or at least give him a bit of friction, his hand was batted away.

“Oh, come on,” Everett grunted, running his nails down the back of T’Challa’s scalp. T’Challa shushed him and began to undo his own pants; he shoved them down just enough that he could spring his cock from his boxers, the wet head brushing messily across Everett’s thigh.

“For someone who’s against this idea, you’re awfully impatient.” T’Challa’s statement was light and teasing, but hushed only for Everett to hear.

“If I’m going to get fired, I’d like to get off first,” Everett grumbled, prompting a laugh from T’Challa. He then gathered one of Everett’s hands in his own and pinned it to the wall, entwining their fingers. Their presence not only warmed Everett’s fingers, but his chest as well—he hated fighting T’Challa, especially when he deemed it unnecessary.

A low hum left T’Challa, amused in the purest sense. “At least you’re honest.”

“My honesty is the only thing I have left, and you’re happily ruining that for me,” He let his head fall back against the wall as T’Challa thrust forward, catching his cock in the same hand that held Everett’s.

“Are you sure it’s not your chastity I’m happily ruining?”

“Stop acting like your cock’s the only one I’ve seen,” Everett huffed; a low whine came next from him as T’Challa rolled his hips forward, rubbing the lengths of their cocks together. He groaned, hooked one arm around T’Challa’s shoulders, and slid his other hand down to grope at his neck.

T’Challa drew his tongue over Everett’s bottom lip. “My cock’s the  _ best  _ you’ve ever seen.”

Everett snorted, pressing their mouths together and trying not to laugh; the stress of the day was melting away, far too easily soothed. Everett let it go all the same, clinging tighter to T’Challa, letting him hear every hitch in his breath and every stunted, stuttered moan. And then he  _ heard  _ it. The subtle sound of metal creaking—he turned his head toward the source of the noise, wincing when T’Challa took advantage to of his distraction and bit down sharply on his neck.

“Just stay quiet,” T’Challa eased, voice as quiet as the grave. Everett let out a frightened whine; it was Stark, fiddling with the door handle. He wasn’t looking at them, thank god, but the  _ slightest  _ turn of his head—

“Stop biting me, and maybe I could,” Everett hissed, hips jerking in time with T’Challa’s thrusts. Every slick slide had a familiar fire licking through his veins and short-circuiting his brain in short bursts.  _ All he would have to do is look,  _ Everett’s mind echoed and he shook his head at the thought, unable to shake it.

And oddly enough, it was  _ arousing. _

“T’Challa, I…” His next words were groaned and consisted wholly of T’Challa’s name. “T’Challa—” He pressed his forehead against T’Challa’s shoulder, scraping his shoes against the floor.

“Go ahead,” T’Challa breathed into his ear—when had he moved his head so close? “I’m almost there myself. Take it, love. Run with it.” He nibbled at Everett’s earlobe, whispering his encouragement.

“I love it when you’re sweet to me,” Everett whispered back, hearing that God-awful noise again—the near-turning of a handle. He kissed T’Challa then, toes curling and body trembling. He let out a low pant when he broke the kiss, once again offering his neck to the younger man.

They came together, T’Challa’s hand becoming messy with it. Everett whimpered as T’Challa drew the hand away, looking around in an attempt to find some sort of tissue.

“They’re supposed to be on the table,” Everett said, voice wobbling as he spoke. T’Challa let out an uncertain hum, squinting at the bare table, and then down at the mess of papers beneath his feet. Everett let out a grunt, shoving his messy cock back into his pants and wincing at the oversensitivity as he did so. “And put your dick away. Most of the cum is on your hand anyway.”

“It’s not like they’re looking over here,” T’Challa said, rolling his eyes.

“Do you need me to put it away for you?” Everett asked. “I’m a little old to be—” He cut himself off. “Just, put your dick back in your pants.”

T’Challa let out an uncertain noise as he one-handedly tucked himself away. “You’re still mad at me.”

“What gave you that idea?” Everett asked, trying his best to keep the sarcasm to a minimum. He bent low to retrieve the scattered paperwork, grumbling inwardly about the distraction—as much as he enjoyed it, that’s what it was—and T’Challa’s ability to get the upper hand in everything they did.

“I will sign your papers,” T’Challa told Everett with a sigh. “I’ve missed my moment of opportunity, so I will stay for now.” He pursed his lips, catching Everett’s eye as he stood. “But don’t think I will be going back home to Wakanda.”

“I knew it was too much to hope for,” Everett responded dryly, shaking his head. “Always is.”

 

 

“Do you think it’s going to be worth it?” Everett asked, straightening his tie.

T’Challa came up beside him, wrapping his arms around Everett’s waist. “Marrying me? I do hope so.” He kissed at Everett’s ear, delighting in the giggle he received.

Everett reached up and grabbed his jaw, squeezing gently. “No. Handwriting all of those invitations—no one’s RSVP’d yet.” He dragged his fingers down the freshly shaved face of his fiancé.

“You just sent them out—they’ll likely RSVP tonight. In person,” T’Challa soothed, kissing at the top of Everett’s head. “You worry so much.” He smoothed his hands down Everett’s back, kneading at his tense muscles through the silken suit he was wearing.

“I worry just the right amount. Getting married to you, I’m going to have to do twice as much as usual.”

“I hardly think that will be necessary. I’m not that much trouble, am I?” The level of innocence injected into his voice had Everett sighing.

“Not at all,” Everett told him with a knowing look. “Now put your shoes on—I don’t think that Tony and you are on good enough terms for you to be walking around his place in socks.”

The party that Stark was throwing wasn’t nearly as white collar as Everett had thought it would be—and then he realised that if it had been, he probably wouldn’t have been invited. He still thought himself a handsome accessory to T’Challa all the same, dressed in black silk.

“Well, if it isn’t the loving couple,” Stark snarked, a fluted champagne glass in one hand. “So, were you at any point going to tell us you were shacking up before now, and just forgot?”

“It’s lovely to see you as well, Tony,” T’Challa greeted, offering a hand. Stark took it willingly, shaking with an enthusiasm that Everett had never seen in the man.

He pulled T’Challa close, keeping his voice low. “I’m going to be honest with you, I have no idea what to get you for a wedding gift—do you have a gift registry or…”

“We do,” Everett answered, squeezing T’Challa’s arm. “I’ll send it over after the party, if you want.”

Stark nodded in agreement, pulling away. He folded his hands in front of him as best he could without tipping his glass, not quite comfortable enough with Everett to shake his hand. “How’s that ball and chain feeling right about now?”

“Leave him alone, Tony,” Clint told him, rising from his seat to great Everett and T’Challa. “Have to say, definitely a surprise, but not an unwelcome one—”

“—And the invites were lovely.” Natasha followed from her seat on a nearby loveseat. “How long have you two been together?”

“When did you have the time to  _ get  _ together?” Clint bullied back in. “In all the mess, I’d think it would be pretty hard to start a relationship.”

Everett snorted, gladly accepting a drink that Vision offered him. “About a year? Year and a half?” He shrugged.

“Long enough to know that my heart can never reside elsewhere,” T’Challa murmured, smiling at Everett.

“That’s just gross, get a room,” Stark muttered, popping some sort of finger food into his mouth that Everett didn’t take the time to identify. “No love confessions in my house.”

Everett managed an eye roll before Peter was anxiously walking up to them, looking more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Everett flashed him a friendly smile, and then gave a handshake.

“Congratulations on getting married, and stuff,” Peter effused, though it was quiet enough that Everett found it cute. “I, uh. It’s cool, to see you getting married to Black Panther and all that—” Realisation dawned on his face. “—Wait, do you know that he’s—”

“—Yes, he does,” T’Challa replied. “He’s known for longer than you have, I assure you. Longer than anyone here, actually.” He brought Everett’s hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

“Oh, yeah, duh. Of course.” Peter shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, I mean, if you need help with decorating or anything, I have time. And I can cling to walls and stuff, so I’m really good at hanging… really… high things…” His voice trailed off, and he looked down at his feet.

T’Challa placed a hand on his shoulder, beaming. “I have no doubt that we will need the help, Peter. Thank you for the offer.” Peter brightened, smiling up at T’Challa as his hand slid away. “Can you show me where the refreshments are?”

“Yes, of course, right over here,” Peter began, walking forward. T’Challa followed close behind, and Everett shook his head.  _ Too sweet,  _ he thought, turning toward the other guests who all seemed to be holding back the majority of their questions.  _ Guess when you have a younger sibling like Shuri, you just get used to it. _

“I, for one, am glad for your engagement—it is cause for a true celebration,” Thor suggested, second happiest for them only to Peter. He lifted a glass of beer—Everett hoped it was beer—and offered that lopsided, puppy-dog smile that had Everett smiling back.

“That’s what the wedding is for, chief,” Stark told him, cocking an eyebrow. “That’s the whole point of it.”

“Human weddings are not nearly as fun as ours,” Thor answered, smile never leaving his face.

“Weddings on Asgard end up in way too many broken tables,” Wilson told Thor resolutely. “Everett’s not young enough for that kind of action.”

Again, Everett rolled his eyes.

“Colour me offended,” Everett remarked dryly, wondering briefly as to why T’Challa went to get drinks when Vision was handing them out like they were Smarties on Halloween night.  _ To watch you squirm,  _ his mind supplied, and he shoved the idea away. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a fiancé to fetch—I think he’s bound to have drowned by now.”

He heard the whispers behind him as he left to find T’Challa; they weren’t hurtful, no. Just surprised. Everett couldn’t blame them. He was rather surprised himself; he went to fidget with the heavy ring on his finger, its diamond loud and ostentatious. Because of  _ course  _ it was. T’Challa was determined to spoil him, no matter how loudly Everett protested the affection.

Later that evening, long after he’d collected his future husband and went home, he was still replying to animated texts and messages from several people about his engagement. He shared them openly with T’Challa, who was brushing his teeth and smiling with each positive message.

“I can’t believe they’re so shocked,” Everett wondered aloud. “Are we really that different? Is it that hard to imagine the two of us together?”

“I don’t know, I never had to imagine it,” T’Challa responded, finally exiting the bathroom; he was dressed in nothing but a loose pair of sweatpants, thumb defiantly stuck in the hem. “I’ve always had you.”

Everett looked up from his phone. “You’re an insufferable romantic. I just wanted to know if you think we’re good together. Even though everyone is… surprised.”

“You love it.” He stepped forward, eyes soft. “And I would choose no one else.”

“I do,” Everett agreed, setting his phone down on a nearby dresser and dropping the second half of his conversation. He looped his arms around T’Challa’s neck. A kiss, gentle and chaste, caught his bottom lip. Teeth followed, nipping at it and tugging gently. “Are you trying to tell me something, or do you want me to taste your toothpaste?”

“I want you to come to bed with me,” T’Challa purred, drawing his fingers down Everett’s sides. “And let me kiss you.”

“Kiss me where?” Everett questioned, trying to play coy.

T’Challa’s hands moved to splay across Everett’s lower back, heavy and hot.  _ “Everywhere,” _ he whispered, leaning forward and covering Everett’s mouth with his own. Everett let out an appreciative groan, tightening his arms around T’Challa’s neck and knocking him backwards toward the bed.

“I have a better idea,” Everett murmured against T’Challa’s lips. T’Challa grunted, as if to say  _ what could be better.  _ “Why don’t you let me ride you?”

Everett watched in mild glee as T’Challa’s eyes glazed over at the thought. He snapped out of his stupor far quicker than Everett thought he could. T’Challa gathered Everett in his arms, rumbling a slew of words hungrily at Everett and pressing any number of kisses across his cheeks and lips.

“You’re still going to have to prepare me,” Everett reminded him; T’Challa was dragging him across the room, sticking his fingers into Everett’s belt loops and whispering sweet nothings to him.

“I will gladly do so,” T’Challa answered, words slurred as he kissed at the corners of Everett’s mouth. “Watching you squirm on my fingers is my second favourite thing in the entire universe.”

“Oh? What’s your favourite?” Everett questioned as he was hustled to the bed and pushed down upon it. Insistent fingers worked at his nightshirt, unbuttoning it without any sort of preamble.

T’Challa nudged Everett’s head higher with his face. “Watching the way your face brightens when I tell you I love you,” he whispered against Everett’s neck. Any blood that wasn’t working its way down to Everett’s cock flooded his face, and he turned his head further up.

Kisses littered Everett’s neck and exposed shoulder—they were warm, wet, and  _ hungry,  _ worshipping him with fiery little pinpricks. Everett went to sit up, gathering T’Challa close, returning the kisses and sucking hickies into his neck with an equal amount of devotion. T’Challa briefly broke free to grab both lube and a condom, tossing them on the blankets beside him—and then he was back on Everett, biting at his shoulder and jaw, leaving marks of love to show a map of where he’d been.

“Let me get on top of you, greedy,” Everett huffed, rolling over on top of T’Challa and grinding down; T’Challa’s hands, which had begun to move toward Everett’s hips, shook slightly as the older man did so. They found their mark all the same, squeezing the soft flesh.

T’Challa’s hands moved lower, tugging at the hem of Everett’s sleeping pants; Everett lifted off of T’Challa so that his pants could be removed, and then his boxers; his cock was half-hard and of  _ immediate  _ interest to T’Challa, who cupped it instantly. Everett groaned and folded forward to kiss T’Challa, rocking his hips down into the soft touch.

“Hand me the lube,” T’Challa whispered, skating a hand down Everett’s back and cupping his ass. Everett reached for it blindly, fingers wrapping around the bottle and tugging it toward him with ease. He handed it off to T’Challa, who had to briefly remove his hand from Everett’s cock so he could slather the lube on his fingers. Everett whined out a complaint at the lack of friction.

“Now who’s the greedy one?”

“Still you,” Everett grunted out, sitting up; slightly chilly, lube-covered fingers slipped between his ass cheeks, smoothing over his entrance and spreading a liberal amount of slick liquid there. “Teasing me.” His voice pitched up into a sharp gasp when the fingers curled against his entrance, but not pushing in.

“Impatient,” T’Challa decided, pulling his hand away, but only briefly. They were back, with even  _ more  _ lube than before, dripping with it. And it was twice as warm as before. T’Challa circled his entrance with his fingers, pressing one forward only lightly before pulling back.

“Tease,” Everett grunted back, gritting his teeth and rocking down against the searching, playful fingers. T’Challa clicked his tongue and pushed his finger forward, breaching Everett; a low, happy groan left Everett and he stilled, squeezing his eyes shut as it slid in to the knuckle. It withdrew just as slow, rocking back and forth and drawing stilted moans from Everett.

T’Challa pumped Everett’s cock in time with the languid stretching; the pace was maddening, and Everett shivered and whined plaintively. He tried to rock into either hand, not quite ready to verbally beg. The only sounds in the room now was a combination of their labored breathing, whispered moans _ ,  _ and the lewd noise of squelching; the background behind it buzzed like static, filling his ears.

A second finger pressed up and into him. Everett patiently waited for the mild pinch to dissipate before rocking back on them and getting T’Challa to grunt in surprise. His hand jumped to Everett’s hip, holding him still as he continued to pump his fingers, occasionally twisting and spreading them. Everett mourned the loss of the hand around his cock, despite how frustrating it had been.

The fingers inside him curled to strike his prostate, and the noise he made broke up the silence around them. T’Challa repeated the action and Everett shivered atop him, body shaking like a leaf in the wind.

“Good,” T’Challa breathed, rubbing his thumb against Everett’s hip. “Here, lean over me.” He pulled Everett forward a tad, trying to coax him to do so. Everett fumbled and pressed his face into T’Challa’s shoulder, taking a mouthful of dark,  _ perfect  _ skin into his mouth and suckling.

Everett’s noises didn’t stop— _ couldn’t _ stop. Not with T’Challa’s insistent, ruthless fingers pressing against his prostate with his with thrust and curl.  _ Too old for this,  _ he swore inwardly, biting at T’Challa’s neck now, soothing whatever pain he caused with a quick swipe of his tongue.

“Stop, ah—” Everett couldn’t move, couldn’t reach down to stop T’Challa’s hand from wrapping around his cock. “I’m going to…” His body shuddered, and his words fell dead in his mouth. T’Challa chuckled and ran his thumb along the slit at the top of Everett’s cock, before drawing it down and beneath the rim of the sensitive head.

Everett’s body jolted like it’d been electrified.

“Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck, _ ” he hissed out, burying his face harder against T’Challa’s shoulder. “How am I going to ride you if I’m exhausted?”

T’Challa hushed him, refusing to pull his hands away or change his pace. It took Everett a moment, but he summoned the energy to lift his head. Once that was accomplished, he began to kiss pleadingly at T’Challa’s mouth. Each kiss was desperate and wanting, trying to convey a message that Everett couldn’t speak.

“I’ve got you, darling,” T’Challa whispered, licking away the sweat that had gathered on Everett’s top lip. “Cum for me.”

It wasn’t an order, but Everett’s body treated it as one. He came, and he came  _ hard,  _ body going rigid and T’Challa’s name leaving his mouth in a whispered sob. T’Challa’s mouth covered his to catch it, pulling his fingers free with a slick, wet noise. He rubbed gently at Everett’s back, waiting for him to catch his breath.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Everett puffed out as he sat back up. He carefully lifted his hips once more, assisting in taking T’Challa’s pants off and tossing them somewhere off the bed.

“You’ve got a long life ahead of you,” T’Challa told him sternly, shoving his boxers off next. Everett let out an appreciative groan at the sight of T’Challa’s cock standing proud and straight between his legs, dripping at the tip. T’Challa reached over and grabbed both the condom and lube. He dutifully slipped the condom on and covered his messy hand in even  _ more  _ lube, before slicking up. “And I’m going to fuck you through it.”

Everett let out a startled gasp at the statement, cheeks burning hotter than they ever had before. He widened his stance to better accommodate T’Challa’s waist between them. T’Challa laid a hand on his waist and urged Everett down.

“I’m supposed to be riding you,” Everett chastised. T’Challa cocked an eyebrow at Everett’s defiance and thrust upward, letting his cock slide up and between Everett’s ass cheeks. A whistling breath left Everett and he wasn’t sure what else he could do but lower himself down; he pulled his ass cheeks out of the way, shuddering when the head of T’Challa’s cock pressed against his entrance.

“Everett,” T’Challa grunted, hips rocking upward against the stretched hole. “If at any point you can’t support yourself, tell me.” Everett nodded, slowly rocking his hips downward. He was careful, taking in inch after inch and trying to do so quietly. His breath came to him in whistled inhales and his body shook with the strain of it, exhausted from his earlier orgasm.

T’Challa was not a small man—not in stature, and not in cock. He filled Everett perfectly, and when hips met hips he let his body sag down. T’Challa muttered something about how  _ good  _ Everett felt and how wonderful he was, and Everett cracked a smile in return.

“I love you,” Everett uttered, lifting his hips up before settling back down. The hands on his hips tightened, helping him as he attempted to start a rhythm. Everett tried not to laugh—T’Challa knew he was exhausted and was using that damned panther strength of his to move him, leaving him feeling a tad like a rag doll. In the end he just gave in to it, letting T’Challa set the pace both with his hands and hips.

“You’re so beautiful,” T’Challa grunted, thrusts even and hard, deep into Everett—Everett tossed his head back at the praise, groaning as T’Challa fucked him. He brought his hands up, running his fingers over his nipples; Everett began to pinch and play with them, tugging them this way and that and watching T’Challa’s pupils widen.

His thrusts stuttered, but then returned with vigor; T’Challa angled his hips, managing to slam the head of his cock against Everett’s prostate. Everett’s legs shook, and he fell forward, catching himself on T’Challa’s shoulders. He rolled his hips down hungrily, trying to get that feeling again, that uncontrolled spark of pleasure. T’Challa happily shoved up and into Everett again, fucking him hard and ripping moan after pleased moan from him.

“Do you like that?” T’Challa asked; Everett was all but laying on T’Challa’s chest now, hard cock pressed tightly between their stomachs. “You must,” he murmured as Everett began to mouth at T’Challa’s collarbone.

“I love it, love you,” Everett cooed breathlessly, trying to roll his hips back against T’Challa’s thrust, bouncing on his cock the best he could at this angle. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” T’Challa purred, squeezing Everett’s hips. Everett resisted the urge to wiggle them. “You’re so wet and tight, darling. I thought I’d stretched you.” There was a pant in his voice, shadowing his words. He moved his hands from Everett’s hips to his ass, spreading his cheeks and thrusting harder, if possible.

Everett, biting back his need to whine, kissed T’Challa instead. T’Challa returned the kisses sloppily, each one wet and smacking, adding to the cacophony of sex in the room. T’Challa was vibrating beneath him, thrusts shifting from controlled to jostling and uneven, though always hitting their mark.

T’Challa came before Everett, locking an arm behind Everett’s back and letting his free hand cup Everett’s cock and pump him to completion, apologizing breathlessly for coming first. Everett would have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t busy arching forward and spilling himself over T’Challa’s hand. T’Challa continued to stroke him through the aftershocks, until it was too much for Everett to take.

“Stop,” he whined; T’Challa willingly drew his hand away, though didn’t pull out. He locked his arms around Everett’s back, kissing at his forehead. “I don’t think I can move.”

“Then don’t,” T’Challa suggested. “But I warn you—if you stay here, on my lap, then I’m going to get hard again. And then I’m going to have to fuck you.” He nosed at Everett’s hair. “Which, while I am happy to do so, you seem a tad exhausted.”

“Long as I’m not on top, feel free,” Everett muttered with a yawn, propping his chin on T’Challa’s chest; T’Challa looked nearly as tired as he did. “But how about we go catch a shower instead. We have to be up early tomorrow morning.”

T’Challa looked puzzled. “What?”

“We’ve got an appointment with the tailor tomorrow,” Everett reminded, wincing as he shifted, pulling himself off of T’Challa’s softened cock. “Remember? You wanted to schedule it close to the party, so we could have an excuse if anyone invited us out.”

T’Challa groaned and brought his hands to his face.

“I know, I know. Waking up early isn’t something you’re fond of,” Everett told him, flopping on the bed beside him. T’Challa turned toward him, reaching out to try and draw him close—only to be stopped. “Get the condom off first, chump.”

A low huff left T’Challa, but he did as he was asked, pulling it off with a disgustingly wet noise and tying it. It was tossed into the nearby trash can, and he was rewarded by Everett snuggling close. T’Challa let out a relaxed hum, pressing his cheek to the top of Everett’s head.

“We could shower in the morning,” he suggested.

“We’d have to get up even earlier,” Everett replied, kissing at T’Challa’s breast. “It’s better to shower now.” The look in T’Challa’s eyes said he accepted his fate, albeit unwillingly.

Everett shifted upward, pressing a soft kiss to T’Challa’s mouth.

“Come on, if we shower together, it’ll take less time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the end of the fic!
> 
> Song for this fic:  
> My Jolly Sailor Bold by AcapellaOnion on Youtube  
> Genghis Khan by Miike Snow
> 
> Kudos to the most wonderful beta in the world! Hats off to you. 
> 
> Want to stay updated? Want to chat or shoot me a prompt? Have an idea that you'd like me to consider for this pairing? Feel free to click [here](http://everyday-im-preaching.tumblr.com/) to do all these things and more!


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